How to Conduct an Experiment
by KeepCalmFanFicExists
Summary: A freak accident in the Potions Room brings an inquiery at Hogwarts, and everyone must portray the events in the best of their ability. Through the words of students and teachers alike, Tom Riddle's place in the school comes to light, along with his relationship with Dumbledore. Could they have known this was the most powerful Dark Lord in history? -set in 1943.


_This fic was born after a discussion with Azzie (Inkfire) regarding Voldemort's image at school. This is an attempt to portray that. Girl, you'll make my brain boil. ;)_

_WARNING: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. OR ANYWHERE FOR THAT MATTER._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, just the experiment here._

"W-What just happened?" coughed Druella Rosier through clouds of thick smoke.

"Did- Did that thing explode?" Charlus Potter called from the other end of the Potions Classroom.

"Guys, you okay?" Dorothy Fawley asked, while shrugging off pieces of wood from her robes.

"The bloody thing went off, that's what happened! Like Riddle _said_ it would!" Zevi Prince yelled from under his working desk.

"Children, children, silence, please, " said professor Slughorn, his face red and sweaty, and voice shaking with horror. "Let us clear the-"

"Ahhhhh," Lucille Malfoy's screech froze everybody's mind.

The air had cleared up and there, in front of the girl's feet, where a cauldron should be brewing potions, remained a black hole still smoking and, around it, the bodies of three young men who were lying unconscious: Cygnus Black and Adolph Lestrange were collapsed on their sides, their clothes and hair scorched lightly, and, on top of them, the much longer and leaner body of Tom Riddle, with his left hand still extended, fingertips barely touching his wand. And there was blood flowing freely from up his neck, down to his groin.

* * *

"Let the record show that we are officially convening the disciplinary hearing regarding the events of the afternoon of October 21st, 1943 in the Potions' Classroom of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Everything mentioned in this hearing will be published, along with any other supporting documentation relevant to the case. This is Madam Professor Griselda Marchbanks conducting the honours, with Mr. Perkins keeping records," said formally the middle-aged witch that would be deciding the school's fate. She looked tiny behind the heavy walnut desk, while a boy with flying red hair and glasses was taking notes frantically in a corner.

"Any questions before we start?" she asked, this time in a softer tone, her gaze pausing on every young heir's face for a second, before moving on to the next.

"Are you the only one conducting the hearing, madam?" Orion Black asked curtly. "Because my father, Arcturus Black III, Order of Merlin, First Class, says that no official decision can be made without at least _two_ officials from the Ministry."

"Nonsense, Orion," Abraxas Malfoy spoke up, "you think, with the school's vitality on the line and so many important families involved, they would have forgotten such a basic formality?"

"How about we tone it down a bit?" said Zevi Prince calmly, casting a polite look at the witch, as if he was offering her back the right to speak.

Professor Marchbanks blinked and then smiled automatically to the boys. She had been warned to treat certain students with some... lenience and these three certainly fit the bill. Each of their parents could have her sacked in a matter of minutes; an owl with a single complaint would be enough.

"I assure you, Mr. Black, everything is according to protocol. All you have to do is tell us exactly what happened from the beginning." She inclined her head, meaning they could start telling their story whenever they were ready.

"Well," Orion began, "the whole thing started a week ago, when Professor Slughorn informed us that our year, which is the sixth, had managed to pull the highest average score in the history of Potions O.W.L.s . He said we were entitled to a special treat that should revolve around Potions somehow."

"Exactly," continued Zevi, "so we decided, as the joint class of Gryffindors and Slytherins, on an truly experimental procedure that had not been tested again. It was my idea," he added smugly.

"Yeah, right," sneered Abraxas, tossing his white-blonde hair to the side, "because Riddle had nothing to do with that."

"Are you suggesting, Mr. Malfoy," professor Marchbanks cut him off, "that Mr. Riddle had prepared the suggestion from before? Alone?"

"He did not say that," Zevi said indignantly, "you did _not_ say that," he turned to Abraxas. "He meant that perhaps Tom suggested we do something entirely new. But the experiment was _my_ idea."

"That's what I meant," Abraxas nodded along with Orion, who continued the explanations: "so we came up with this totally cool idea. Can we concoct real live tissue in a potion, and not just separately the ingredients of life?"

"In other words, have one extra-jumbo cauldron that brews in different conditions together proteins, fats, carbohydrates, minerals, vitamins and water, so we could get at least a few cells. It's totally awesome," Zevi finished, his eyes gleaming.

"And everyone was happy with that?" professor Marchbanks asked with a piercing stare.

* * *

"Yes," agreed Slughorn, his huge mustache flying, as he shook his head in enthusiasm. "It was a brilliant idea indeed. Both the Slytherins and Gryffindors were a hundred percent on board with the decision. There were even Ravenclaws who came to ask me for permission to observe the class. I have never seen such House unity in my entire experience at school as a student as well as a teacher!"

"As simple as that?" repeated the witch incredulously.

"Indeed," said professor Merrythought shakily. She was extremely old and tired, with wrinkles practically scarring her face, but in her voice one could detect signs of admiration for the young minds involved in the experiment. "The sixth-year Ravenclaw students had DADA at that point with me, some of them came to ask for a pass just for the hour of the experiment. I have to say, it is the first time since the death of poor Myrtle Pierce that I saw the Ravenclaws committed to something with their usual thirst for knowledge! It was great for them, so I let them take the time they needed. Besides, word had started to spread about the possible methods to be used in the experiment, it sounded quite fascinating!"

"Is that right, Headmaster Dippet?" Marchbanks turned to an equally old and worn wizard with few white hairs. He had been her own mentor back at school and, even though she knew she had to remain as objective as possible, she had full trust in the old man's point of view.

"I gave consent for this experiment to be conducted," the Headmaster confirmed her words. "The children needed a good distraction since the death of that dear girl and such a feat would surely offer great experience and knowledge of magical science to each and every one of us, and even some good publicity for the school that has been lately... erm defamed. I must admit, though, I could have never foreseen the difficulties in the conception and materialization of this particular concoction. As it turned out, there were two possibilities and they were fundamentally different."

"Which brings us, I believe, to your approach, professor Dumbledore," Marchbanks turned to her own personal favourite student. She had herself seen what young Albus could do with a wand, and the man's fame, even at a young age, could only be compared to the fame of the other essential wizard of the incident. And yet, even she had to admit that from time to time, Dumbledore's methods were more than questionable; something that could not be said for the other. It made her a bit worried.

"That is correct," Albus said cheerfully. "When the final decision on the type of experiment was taken, I was asked to help with the preparations by professor Slughorn's request. We both agreed that having many of our discussions in front of our students would serve the point of offering an idea on our planning and thought-process."

"Do you consider this idea wise, in the light of the recent events?"

"Yes," Dumbledore stated, "I insist, it is vital for the children to _observe_ such situations early on, so they can realise the real magic of magic, which is, of course, the almost alchemic connection between the separate branches and how that helps us evolve and take magical limits further. They have to see it as a part of the natural process, not just through faceless, intimidating books and manuals.  
If I may now proceed to the scientific part, my main idea, which proved to be the Apple of Discord in our story, was to insert at the same time all the molecules and atoms required for the formation of life in the large cauldron, then use a series of spells to develop different compartments in the cauldron that would trap the molecules needed for every macromolecule to form. At that point we would apply heat and other important circumstances and let nature take its course. After that, and with the macromolecules ready, we would let the boarders dissolve, and the ingredients, already biological material, would mix together. From there, we would repeat the respective conditions for the macromolecules to form bonds that appear in cells, and we should have our answer," Dumbledore concluded simply.

"It sounds... terribly experimental to me," professor Marchbanks commented.

* * *

"That's exactly what Riddle said, madam," Franklin Longbottom smiled broadly, as he remembered that day. It had started really fun, that day, only things had gotten sticky soon after, and he wasn't sure what to think anymore.

"Yep," Septimus Weasley said, "he had some objections about the first part of the experiment, madam. He said that light, small molecules, like oxygen and nitrogen, could easily react and get out of control, because their combatibility-"

"-compatibility," Charlus Potter corrected his friend.

"-that, was erm... kind of all over the place. I mean, he put it kind of like- that they have many possible interactions in very similar conditions and we wouldn't be able to make sure we controlled everything, and, sort of-"

"I understand what you mean, Mr. Weasley," Marchbanks released him from the agony on explaining something he obviously didn't understand well. She made a small gesture with her hand towards Ignatius Prewett, who seemed to be following Tom Riddle's logic better than the red-head.

"Instead," Ignatius took over, "he suggested we use heavy atoms that would react in very specific ways if given the right conditions and then cause nuclear fission to each atom involved in a molecule _separately _to get the macromolecules we needed and extract what remained. He said that containing a nuclear reaction has been fully managed in labs and that it would only require a few extra spells to do in class."

"Yeah," Charlus continued, "he also said that by doing that correctly, we'd have no danger factors, while by doing what professor Dumbledore and professor Slughorn said, it would probably blow up in our faces."

"Did he put it like that, Mr. Potter?" inquired Marchbanks, casting the boy a penetrative look. They were reaching the crucial points of the meetings; she didn't particularly care about the experiment in itself, her job was to find out if the school had been negligent or if something had caused this terrible accident. And she needed to get to the truth.

"I'm sure he used fancier, scientifically better words," said Charlus, slight sarcasm in his voice, "but I don't remember them. I can't even spell them, really," he relaxed back on his chair casually.

"No, I meant, how did he contradict professor Dumbledore? Was he... polite? Forceful? Taunting?"

"Err... actually, he put it as a question first," Franklin offered the information. "He asked how we would stop the useless reactions and keep those we want."

"And?"

"He's very polite," Septimus verified his friend's words, " Prefect Riddle is 'always polite and civil'. Dumbledore told him something about multiple points of control, I think, Riddle said that he doubted it would be enough and that, to him, all this sounded crazy dangerous."

"But then Dumbledore said this was the only option he and Slughorn could think of, and that if he had a better idea to get back to them after class."

"And how did that sound to you, Franklin?"

"Well... professor Dumbledore did sound a bit condescending..."

"No, he didn't!" Charlus said a tad bit too aggressively. "He had to go on with the lesson and Riddle had no ideas at that point, it would have been a waste of time to just talk about it. Especially since he seemed the only one who had spotted a problem. And Riddle knew that, that's why he didn't say anything more that day!"

"But he did the next?"

"In the next lesson, yeah, two days later. He raised his hand and told us all that stuff I tried to tell you before. He even had diagrams with him."

"How did the professors react this time?"

"I think Slughorn at some point sat next to him at the first desk to talk about it, but Dumbledore insisted on doing it after class. I don't think Slughorn agreed to that, he asked him many times to listen Riddle out. But Riddle didn't seem to mind. Not that you can be sure with him, but, you know, he didn't look pissed or anything..."

"Mr. Weasley, some decorum, please," professor Marchbanks wrinkled her face to the sound of those words. "Right, then if Mr. Riddle was calm, how did the heated argument come up? Or has my history been incomplete?"

"It wasn't Riddle who got in the fight with Dumbledore," muttered Franklin, "it was his Slytherin friends."

"Aha," Charlus nodded pointedly, "they always stand up for him, even though he told them it was all right and he'd talk to the teachers in private about his ideas. Prince said that Tom's idea was brilliant and groundbreaking, and Black -Cygnus Black, that is- yelled at Dumbledore that he always ignores Riddle, because he doesn't like him because he's better than him and he's afraid he'll do greater things earlier than him."

Professor Marchbanks' eyes opened wide.

"Did they really say those things?" she asked, while the kid who was taking notes was going through a parchment per minute.

* * *

"Yeah, we did," Orion said proudly, "because it's the truth."

"We would say the same things again tomorrow if we had to," agreed Zevi matter-of-factly. "We, and I think I can speak for everyone here, and for Lestrange and Black who are recovering at the Hospital Wing, had no intention of offending or aggravating professor Dumbledore. We just said a few things we have all been thinking about all these years."

"What you said was rather rude and hurtful, not to mention a heavy accusation, if true," professor Marchbanks eyed them grimly. "Could you be more specific about the expressions used and also say a few words regarding the... reasons you decided to lash out at that specific moment?"

"Do you have plenty of time and ink?" asked Abraxas rather haughtily, running his hand through his hair, "because if you want facts, we can be here for a looong time. Six years Dumbledore's got set his mind on tormenting Tom."

"Tormenting?" gasped Marchbanks, not believing her ears.

"Tormenting is perhaps too harsh," Zevi spoke again, "but surely, everyone who observes a class of Transfiguration with the Slytherins would notice that professor Dumbledore is not... fond of Tom."

"Yeah," Orion agreed enthusiastically, "he managed to transform his chair into a cat in the first week of school and Dumbledore has never given him a thumbs up. Not once as long as I can remember. And, note, he had never seen a wand a week before that."

"Neither can I," Abraxas added, "and in general, even though Tom always manages the assignment with the first try, he doesn't earn us house points from Dumbledore. Actually, since we started hanging out since second year, he does that a bit with us too..."

"Not awarding you points? I understand." Professor Marchbanks wasn't sure whether she wanted to listen to more. "Off the record, I have a question for you, young gentlemen. If I am not mistaken, Mr. Riddle is not of famous ancestry, how did you smart Slytherin lads become so close with him?"

"Off the record?" asked Abraxas, cocking an eyebrow, and when she nodded yes, Orion answered with eyes wide, clear admiration in them:

"Have you seen him cast spells, madam? They're off the freaking hook!"

"It's kind of impossible _not_ to notice him," Abraxas said, "I mean, it was that thing with the cat in the first week, and the parrots the next... He's hard to miss, Riddle. And it's not just us, madam. You know how house rivalry is, we all try to hex our dear Gryffindor friends while walking down the halls, just this week Avery grew horns, but you'll never see a student from another house trying to do nasty stuff to Tom. They respect him, they know he's... better, cooler, more mature, if you like."

"Yeah, when he walks down the hall, the kids part so he can walk, they offer him their seats for dinner when he shows up. If he shows up, that is," said Abraxas rather thoughtfully.

Zevi cast him a meaningful look and Abraxas' pale cheeks got a bit pink.

"Well, it's not Tom's fault if the others think he's the best student here!"

"So, this is what you think of Mr. Riddle?"

"If I may, madam," Zevi said politely, "I recall reading in the paper about how disappointed you were last year, because you were in the hospital -our best wishes, by the way- during our O.W.L.s and you wouldn't be able to observe him do magic."

"That is quite true," professor Marchbanks agreed hesitantly, "various of my dear friends and accomplished scholars have made impressive comments on Mr. Riddle's abilities and I would like to be a witness myself."

"Hopefully you will, madam," Orion said, "unless the damage from the accident is too much for him..."

"Don't say that!" Abraxas scolded him. "He's become famous to the whole world, this cannot be the end!"

"You are quite right, Mr. Malfoy, we should remain positive in all this uncertainty and worry. But you have not commented on my other question: why now? If all... this has been going on for so long, why didn't you say something sooner?"

"We don't mind losing points, madam, but this time it was about our safety and the credibility of the institution," Orion shook his head knowingly. "Tom would be furious if we did something without his-" he stopped talking instantly, when he realised his friends were looking at him horrified. "I mean," he hurried, "til now it was his issue, now it became about all of us."

The two others nodded so wildly, their necks cracked.

Professor Marchbanks looked at them with interest, but didn't find anything apart from pure worry in the faces of the young aristocrats.

"A final question for you, gentlemen, and then you are free to go see your friends. Have you even heard Mr. Riddle complain about any of this?"

"No."

* * *

"Albus, you're seeing it the wrong way," Headmaster Dippet said in a soothing voice. "This is not what the _lad_ thinks, it is just the ideas of some of his closest friends. You know teenagers, they make friends and suddenly think that it is the only part of their lives. They are protective and possessive, it comes with the age. And with this young man in particular, I have to say, it is quite understandable, being so interested in him. He is a _role model_, after all."

"Quite right, quite right," Slughorn seconded the elderly teacher's words. "Teenagers do have a tendency towards extravagant stories, that they do."

"Extravagant, yes, but not so similar," disagreed Dumbledore. "If you were right, Horace, shouldn't they all have their own idea on my 'mistreatment' of Mr. Riddle? And yet, they all repeat the same things, agree with the same points. I think it is pretty obvious who has orchestrated this and apparently a long time ago and I cannot emphasize enough how disturbing I find it. A whole class so blindly fed the lies of a fellow student their own age..."

"Oh, I have told you time and again, Albus," said Merrythought tiredly, "I have seen hundreds, maybe thousands of students in my fifty years of teaching. Tom Riddle is just like every one of them. Infinitely smarter and with better manners and sense of hygiene than most, yes, but he is only a teenager. In fact, some time ago he was just a boy. When you talk about him, I feel, most of the times, that you view him as an adult. And therefore, you judge him too harshly."

"My dear Galatea, maturity and manipulation are not matters of biological age," started Dumbledore, but paused when he noticed that the Ministry witch had opened her mouth to speak after a long wait. "Please, madam," he said politely.

"I understand what you are saying Albus, and I must say, it does make sense in a general way, but I would like to hear about the child and his attitude and presence at school. His fame, I believe, has fogged his real personality, I would like to see Tom without the myth and riddles constructed around him. Headmaster, would you?"

"Of course, of course," the old wizard wheezed, "but I have to warn you, Griselda, I have only excellent stories to share. Like I said, he is the role model for everyone; and I will not talk about his academic accomplishments, because I think you are familiar with those and also, I have rarely taught him myself. I can tell you this, though. When he came here, all alone and from a filthy, horrifying environment, he adapted better than anyone I have ever seen. Poor lad had been placed in Slytherin and, without a good name behind him, at first he got bullied. And yet his grades never suffered, he never blamed any of his classmates for the practical jokes they did on him. A gentleman by nature. And then he gained their respect saving most of his dorm mates from that fire.

Griselda, I will not lie, my blood runs cold when I think of what would have happened if he had not been there to freeze the flames. A Flame-Freezing Charm. In his first year! And this was only the first of the numerous heroic acts he has been involved in. He gained this Prefect badge with his own sweat and brains. We had been considering offering him the Award for Special Services to the School anyway, but, you know, of course, about him catching the deranged killer of the poor Ravenclaw. Sweet lad, we haven't told him yet..."

"Precisely," Slughorn shook his head in emphasis, with his mustache dangling importantly. "By far the greatest talent in Potions I have ever seen, and I am including myself here- and we all know how much it pains me to say this," he said with a wink. "It was in his first years that he would come to me with perfected recipes, now he brings potions of his own invention! Always more than willing to donate his time and talent to provide extra assistance to lesser students on top of his Prefect duties. And very gentle with those who struggle, not laughing at them, not underestimating them, just providing what they need. If that boy does not go far one day, I will eat my hat!"

"I could not agree more," professor Merrythought spoke again, "only I have to say, if the lad has one talent, it is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I am not saying that because it is my own subject. It is, though, my area of expertise, and I have had some very challenging discussions with him after class. That boy's mind works in admirable ways, I often find myself inadequate to answer his questions. And I have been doing this job for 50 years."

"Not to mention," the Headmaster added finally, "how shy he gets when learned publications write to us, asking for his papers or a comm-"

"All right, all right," Dumbledore sighed, his ginger beard and hair shining from the fire's reflection, "perhaps I was overreacting to the words of his friends. But I must insist on my absolute objectivity during my lessons. It is agreeable, Mr. Riddle has never been connected to any kind of misbehaviour, on the contrary, he has been there to... save the day with his special abilities more than enough times. I also feel perfectly comfortable admitting that he could be a tad better than me, or really, that he has that potential. I must remind us all, though, that the point of this hearing is not Mr. Riddle's life as a whole, but his and his friends' attitude during a very specific experimental procedure.

If we are willing to come back to that, I have to say, regardless of his wits and intellect, it was not Mr. Riddle's _place_ to make suggestions and, finally, take action. I listened carefully to his suggestions, professor Slughorn can verify that, I am sure, and we decided that Mr. Riddle's words had some truth regarding my idea, but also, his own plan was incredibly more dangerous and experimental. An atomic reaction in a class, I ask you. He is correct, wizarding kind has managed to contain such an event in a laboratory, not that I can give an adequate explanation on how he obtained this knowledge, but attempting that in a place with no appropriate equipment, while having a thousand students in the same area, I must say, that is one step away from homicidal. I do not suggest it was his aim to hurt anyone," Dumbledore hurried on, as he saw Marchbanks' eyes widen, "he is a teenager, he gets overexcited easily and cannot possibly understand the full extent of his idea. What he suggested was far from experimental, it was dangerous.

He was correct about my own plans to some degree, as well. The mixture created in the cauldron held a small possibility of exploding, for the reasons he expressed. We discussed this with professor Slughorn and Headmaster Dippet," he inclined his head towards the respective teachers, " and decided on taking the appropriate measures to minimize that possibility. The school even used a fund to obtain a insulated cauldron. When Mr. Riddle appeared for the fourth time, this time with a list of protective enchantments and other safety measures, yes, I found his behaviour out of bounds."

"But the cauldron _did_ explode," said professor Marchbanks nervously. "Doesn't that suggest that the boy was right? Shouldn't you have taken into account what Mr. Riddle said?"

"For the record," Dumbledore started again, loudly, "I am not convinced with what caused the explosion yet. Was it the slight possibility of the original mixture, or was it perhaps, the magical disturbance Mr. Riddle caused, by casting heavy protective charms a foot far from volatile ingredients?

It is a coin flip; what he said could have given great results, or could have gotten all England killed. In the same pattern, his actions could have offered a minor degree of protection, or could have caused irreversible damage to his dear... friends, due to unexpected complications. He is 16, he could not fathom every possible aspect and therefore, I considered his behaviour a bit over the top. I see now, that maybe the way I handled some parts of the situation were not the most efficient, but there are certain boundaries that ought not to be crossed, so we can all rest easily at night. And, taking into account the panic Mr. Riddle's words caused, I consider my position justified. Rumours spreading like wildfire in the school, we did see those results.

I don't know about you, madam," he turned to professor Marchbanks calmly, "but I would rather ignore one potentially brilliant idea the first time it is phrased, than risk the lives of innocent children."

* * *

"Yeah, well, no, not exactly," Franklin said confused. "It was not _Riddle_ who said Dumbledore's version could be dangerous for real. Charlie told me that he had stumbled upon a Slytherin gang that sounded worried about the experiment, that's how I got the word."

"Yep," Charlus Potter nodded, "that was me. I wanted to ask Chloe, Chloe Greengrass, out for Halloween, and I found her with her friends talking about how they'd stay away from the cauldron, since it's so big. When I asked Chloe about it, she said that Riddle was very upset Lucille was closest to it, and had offered to exchange seats. They all freaked out after that."

"Not really," Ignatius Prewett offered another insight. "Adolph Lestrange told me himself. He said that the night before the experiment he had woken up early in the morning, before dawn, because Riddle was having trouble sleeping. Lestrange was annoyed he couldn't get some rest, so he got up. On Riddle's trunk he found a notebook with pages full of calculations about the explosion and attempts on spells to keep as many protected from the blast as possible. Lestrange says Riddle must've been working on it for days and in the end passed out from exhaustion while brainstorming. And yeah, that's good enough for me to panic."

"Okay," professor Marchbanks said, while the kid taking notes took an expression similar to that of long distance runners just before the gun is fired. "I suppose we can sum this up by saying you did not hear Mr. Riddle say anything about the explosion- apart from the day in class we talked about, of course - but every bit you associate with it can, indeed, be traced back to him, is that correct? Now, boys," she continued more kindly, "I have attended the same school with you, I know how house rivalry works, but I would like your honest opinion: how do you view Tom Riddle and professor Dumbledore's attitude towards him?"

She put her head on her hands that were resting on the desk and waited patiently for them to find the words. Septimus Weasley was the first one to speak this time.

"You see, madam, our jointed class with Slytherin is Potions, not Transfiguration, we rarely see Riddle with Dumbledore..."

"Then perhaps one is avoiding the other?" the professor offered a sinister explanation.

"No way Riddle, madam, he's a Prefect, he's always available to offer help to anyone who needs it, both students and staff. I doubt he'd manage to resist, if he got a message," Septimus sniggered to himself and the other boys joined him in a laugh.

"I presume this is a private joke unsuitable for the ears of an old lady like myself?"

"We're sorry, madam, we didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Only sometimes, Riddle's ways can be a bit comical..." said Charlus apologetically, yet still the grin was not entirely wiped from his face.

"It's just," Franklin answered the professor's silent question, "if you give him a book, you'll never get it back if he hasn't finished it. And he won't see you talking to him if he's reading, it's like he's in another world entirely."

"I know, right? I mean, the school library is public, I shouldn't have to worry about him wanting to read a book that I borrowed."

"How would you worry about that, Mr. Potter?" Marchbanks asked curtly.

"Well... it's not like he'd ever do anything, but, you know, having him lurking in the shadows while you finish the chapter is kind of annoying. But-seriously- he just hasn't got a sense of humour, that's all," Charlus spoke too quickly.

"At all," Ignatius agreed. "Well, he does say some dry jokes that his friends like, but nothing really funny. He gets overly worked up if you overlook the simplest rule-"

"-and somehow he always knows what you've done wrong, it's totally insane. I mean, I get that he reads like ten books a week, so he knows everything the professors ask, but I swear in the name of Gryffindor, I'll be damned if I knew how he found out about the Christmas turkeys, when he was at that Malfoy git's house," Charlus finished the answer.

"I don't know, he could've charmed them and the birds told him themselves," Septimus laughed, "he's just too nice, you know? Too awesome to be real. You should listen to what the girls say..."

"What girls?" Marchbanks asked with interest.

"Any random girl would do, they're all hooked anyway," muttered Charlus darkly. "But I guess they're all at the hospital wing right now, waiting for news on him."

* * *

"Wait for your turn-"

"You already looked once-"

"That wasn't me-"

"Hey, you can't just walk there, there's a line, you know!"

Professor Marchbanks had walked by herself to the Hospital Wing, leaving young Mr. Perkins to give his hand a break, but the sea of braids, bangs and bows had started from the first floor of the Hospital Tower, even though the hospital wing itself was located solely on the fourth floor. What looked like the entire female student population was sitting on the steps and windowsills and, the luckiest girls, right outside the area where the three victims of the accident were being taken care of.

Marchbanks was a rather petite woman and all this modern age girls were considerably taller than her. She had to squeeze herself and apologize many times in order to finally reach the entrance of the wing. A few meters away from the doors, a virtual half moon was isolating the original friends and family of the boys; or perhaps, these were just the alphas of Slytherin and, therefore, the school. Four girls, one paler than the other, were sitting on cushions they had conjured by themselves. Two of them were blondes, the other two brunettes. She approached them and, after making a pillow for herself as well, she sat next to them.

"So," Marchbanks said in a light tone, "which one of you girls is going to fill me in? How are our boys doing?"

All four reacted in the same way, the exact same second: they exchanged looks and cocked their right eyebrow. The blondest of them, Druella Rosier, who had deep purple circles under her eyes, spoke in a curt, tired tone.

"Cygnus and Adolph are both awake and responsive, their parents are already in there, talking to them. Madam Myram says we will not be allowed to go in for at least another twelve hours."

"But that is great news!"

All four again eyed her with the exact same incredulous look.

"Tom is still in a coma!" growled the brunette that professor Marchbanks easily recognised as Walburga Black. "He's not responding to stimuli and- and madam Myram is starting to consider St. Mungo's. She just cannot tell us when he's going to wake up and how he's going to be! And he'll be in so much pain with the burns!"

The other blonde girl, Lucille Malfoy, let out something like a sob, but she managed to stiffen it with her hand; even girls had to be tough in Slytherin. According to her information, she was the girl that lately was graced with Riddle's presence more often. She was pretty, she had to give him that.

"Well, people wake up from comas all the time, Mr. Riddle is a healthy young man, his body just needs some time to mend itself and then he'll be back to normal," she said with unrecognisable amount of sunny optimism.

The girl Charlus Potter had asked out, Chloe, sneered and fixed the silver and green bow on her hair. "These people need to be cared for for a long time, who's going to look after him? He's all alone in this world..."

"Nonsense," the professor dismissed this grim point of view, "everyone has someone close, even if it is not their parents," she said, remembering his orphan status from the various articles in the paper that had, from time to time, hosted his story.

"Actually, he does not," Lucille spoke for the first time. "Have you seen the scars on his chest? When the school sends him back to the Muggles, in a world he obviously doesn't belong, he gets beaten so much, his flesh falls apart and, when he comes back, he weighs 15 pounds less. Do these animals sound like they would encourage him to not overwork himself, madam?"

"No..."

The four girls looked at her content, as if they had proven the most difficult theorem beyond any doubt.

"Then surely, one of you, girls, would be willing to do that? You obviously care about him a lot, spending two days and nights outside his door when he can't even know you're here."

"It has nothing to do with what we offer, it's all about what he accepts. And he would never accept this," Druella informed the professor coldly. "Especially from a girl."

Professor Marchbanks laughed: "But I don't suppose he's that old-fashioned, is he? We now get positions at the Ministry, we teach, we are not pariahs if we choose to not marry..."

"You misunderstood Ella, madam," Chloe said, "Tom wouldn't have a problem accepting help from a girl, because he thinks we are weak. On the contrary, he is, perhaps, the only boy in the school who is really polite to us, genuinely polite. No winks, no grabbing, always a gentleman."

"Yes," Lucille sighed, relaxing a bit, "he's so sweet, he's always 'please, Miss Malfoy' and 'would you mind, Miss Malfoy' and 'I apologize, Miss Malfoy'... it shows his respect for us, that he actually values our thoughts and feelings."

"Is that all he tells you?" Walburga laughed, "not about your silver eyes being as bright as the moon, and your hair so soft, he wants to bury himself in it forever?" she batted her eyelashes, but Lucille only turned pink.

"I told you, it's not like that! He really listens when you talk. And his eyes don't miss yours by a chest," she added pointedly.

"No, but mine do," sighed Druella. "How can I focus on one part of his face, when his eyes have this peculiar dark green colour and his cheekbones are so high and his creamy skin just makes my heart cry?"

"I know right? Sometimes I ask him things he likes, so he can start talking and I miserably stare at him," Lucille said, this time not blushing at all.

"So," the professor found the opportunity she was looking for, "what does he like to talk about?"

"Oh, pretty much anything!" Chloe said happily, "he's got some bizarre theory or interesting information for anything you could come up with."

"Yeah, and he's so willing to help out with homework. Sometimes, I just wait for him to explain to us what the professor said, because he's such a good teacher, he always gets it when I try to show him what I don't understand."

"Because you're a sap, Lucy," Druella laughed. "Helping with homework is one thing. In my opinion, the best about him is that he looks so honoured to be talking to you, blushes when you touch him by accident. And, talking about accidents, isn't it the epitome of chivalry that he offered to switch seats with us when he realised that cauldron would blow up? Now if that is not self-sacrificing, especially with-w-" Druella's lip trembled, "with everything, I don't know what is. Every little Gryffindor lion turns into a kitten compared to Tom after that!"

"So, he told you, Miss Malfoy, that he considered the experiment so dangerous, he was sure the cauldron would explode and thus wanted you and your friends safely away?" asked professor Marchbanks slowly.

"Yes, madam," Lucille nodded, "he said he would feel much better if we were as far away from the cauldron as possible, and then he offered us the table he and the rest used in class. So gallant."

"Right, and Cygnus told me that Tom was planning on putting some protective enchantments around it too, as he would be there, to try and contain the explosion for the rest of us," Druella said seriously.

"But Mr. Riddle didn't tell you that himself?"

"No, madam, Druella told us because Cygnus told her," Chloe spoke up, "and that shows the amount of worry Tom was in, usually he is happy to analyze his amazing thinking process when you ask him something..."

"Except if you ask him about his life. Then he falls silent and asks very quietly to change the subject..."

"You can't blame him, Wally," Lucille elbowed Walburga, "he's been through such horrible stuff, I'd want to get away too."

"So, you must talk quite often...?"

"We-ell, yeah, you could say that-" Lucille started.

"-he's mainly with the boys, though-" Walburga continued.

"-he doesn't even come to meals-" Chloe added.

"-and he's also absent most evenings," Druella concluded.

"Then when do you talk so much?"

To that, none of the girls had anything to answer.

* * *

"And you are Mr. Riddle's closest friends?" professor Marchbanks asked the two boys lying on their respective beds in the Hospital Wing. The matron had advised her to keep the conversation short and uneventful, her young patients were still in a delicate condition due to the amounts of magic they had absorbed during the explosion. She was quite confident they would make a quick and full recovery though, so the professor had decided to ask them a few crucial things.

"That's correct, madam," Adolph Lestrange confirmed her words proudly, puffing up his chest as much as the bandages allowed him to. The skin on his face looked red and painful, but he was beaming broadly. "Tom's a weird kid, brilliant, independent, keeps odd hours, and he lets us keep him companies at times."

Cygnus Black nodded.

"It's a great thing, watching him work and think, and his ideas on experiments are always something else!"

"Experiments?" Marchbanks repeated. "Are you referring to the ones of his that have been published in scientific magazines?"

"Errr... yeah, those exactly," smiled Lestrange, "those exactly. We help out, work on dosages and keep an eye on potions and take notes and stuff."

"So, you would say Mr. Riddle is familiar with procedures like the one at hand."

"Yes, madam, he's got extensive experience with that kind of stuff. And the professors know about it," Black added pointedly, "they always give him their blessing. And that's why we were all so surprised when they didn't listen to him. If Tom says something is going to blow up, you have to be insane to ignore him."

"Insane is a heavy word, Mr. Black," commented the professor, looking at the Black Heir from over her glasses. " But I presume you mean he should have been taken into account more. Yes, I talked to plenty of students and your professors and they all seemed to agree that Mr. Riddle had expressed strongly the opinion that the experiment could be lethal if conducted in professor Dumbledore's way. Regardless of whether he was right, how did he take it?"

"He did what he always does, madam," Lestrange answered, "he hit the library. He loves books, Tom, but this time he had his nose buried in them, you couldn't distract him no matter what. He didn't even sleep."

"Yes," Marchbanks recalled this particular piece of information, "a Gryffindor student was aware of this. Apparently it caused a certain amount of... discomfort among the student population. Did you talk about it with many, Mr. Lestrange?"

Lestrange looked at the professor for a moment before he started talking forcefully.

"You don't understand, Riddle sleeps like five hours a day, he wakes up an hour before breakfast so he can study and goes to bed long after midnight, he can't afford not sleeping well. So when you see him wake up every half an hour, covered in sweat and worried like there's no tomorrow, that's enough to freak you out. And yeah, I talked about it, because it was odd and he's my friend and I was worried. For him and for everyone."

Cygnus Black nodded his head multiple times.

"All right, and from what he told you, what was he planning to do?"

"Well," Black took his turn in speaking, "after two days of being very restless and worried, he told us that we would be switching seats with the girls and we'd be closest to the cauldron. He said that he'd start working on protective enchantments right away."

"Did you see him cast those spells?" asked Marchbanks, eyeing them with an inquisitive look.

"Yes," they answered together and then Lestrange continued, "he told us to stand back and he started mumbling things."

"From what you could understand, did it look like he was doing them wrong?"

"Tom does not make mistakes, madam," said Lestrange with a slight sneer, "I mean, sure he makes mistakes and everything, but not like that. He tests and when it's time for the actual performance, he's always perfect."

"Besides, you could see he was doing it perfectly. He barely caused any kind of magical disturbance with his spells, he did them so lightly!"

"So, you are saying that Mr. Riddle's deeds had nothing to do with the cauldron blowing up- nothing to do with you getting injured."

"If Tom hadn't cast those spells, madam, we would both be dead. We owe him our lives."

* * *

Professor Marchbanks hesitated a moment before walking into the Hospital Wing. Tom Riddle had woken up a few hours ago, weak and thirsty and in pain, but apparently well; as far as the matron could tell, no permanent damage had been noted. St. Mungo's had promised to send a healer though, just in case. Rumours that had reached her ears said, that the St. Mungo's consult had been asked by prominent families of the wizarding world who were worried about his well-being.

The boy had been informed about her imminent arrival, and so his guests, mostly friends, as he had no family, had let him rest. After everything she had heard, the professor was quite looking forward to meeting him. She knocked softly on the door and opened it.

The Hospital Wing was a large room and Tom Riddle was occupying the first bed. He was already sitting up supported by many pillows, and was reading a book that was hovering in front of him. When he noticed the professor, he closed the book and balanced it on the nightstand that was overflowing with cookies and flowers, in a distance that she could read the title: "Modernes Heilen".

"Are you interested in healing?" she asked, as she approached his bed and sat on a chair close by.

"Yes, madam," he said very softly. The bandages stuck out of his hospital gown and covered most of his neck, and she suspected his throat's insides were injured. "I would have read it later in the year, but I figured it would be more useful right now."

"And there was no English copy in the library?"

"There was."

Professor Marchbanks gave him a small smile.

"But, professor," the boy continued, "I don't believe you are here to ask me about my reading habits."

"That is correct, Mr. Riddle, I am here because of the events that followed the Potions experiment. I have already interviewed your classmates and professors, now I would like to listen to what you have to say. Are you comfortable with answering some questions?"

"Of course," Tom inclined his head as much as his traumas allowed him to, "any way I can help, madam."

"Then let us begin with the experiment and the difference in opinions about its conduction. From what I have been told, professor Dumbledore came up with a plan that you considered questionable and potentially dangerous, which caused a tense atmosphere in the school. How do you view this, Mr. Riddle?"

"Indeed," started Riddle calmly, "I had my doubts about professor Dumbledore's idea. I spotted the volatility of the initial mix at the time it was announced and I expressed my concern, but, as professor Dumbledore said, it was the best -and only- idea at the time. I did extensive research and put together another plan, one, I believe, that was safer and more groundbreaking than the one offered. The professor did not agree."

"And?" Marchbanks asked encouragingly. "From what I understand, you were reasonable to believe this. Didn't it bother you professor Dumbledore dismissed you like this?"

"There was nothing out of the ordinary in his reactions towards me, professor," Tom stated, a small wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

"Then you agree with what your friends, Mr. Black and Mr. Prince and everyone else, who accused him of being biased against you?"

"Professor Dumbledore and I have a very different approach in magic and life in general, madam, but I recognise him as an outstanding wizard and member of the community. What he thinks of me..." he paused, "I am glad to accept as much as he will offer me, all I wish is to learn from him. I cannot claim he ever refused me knowledge."

"And yet, he would not discuss with you the ideas you had, which, I may add, sound extremely interesting. And there was talk about not awarding you points..."

"Perhaps it means I am a terrible Slytherin, madam," Tom said, lowering his head, "but House points were never my concern. I understand this might leave some of my classmates disappointed, but we shouldn't forget the reason we are all here. I would never sacrifice this privilege in order to be given points and I also have no control over my friends. I am sorry if they felt robbed somehow.

What professor Dumbledore did... is not for me to judge. I would have enjoyed talking to him about my idea, Cygnus and Adolph would surely agree, but it's perfectly understandable why he preferred not to."

"Is it?" professor Marchbanks asked with anticipation. "How so?"

Riddle opened his mouth, closed it, and then lowered his eyes before answering more softly than ever.

"I- I suppose it's the rational thing to do, madam."

"The rational thing? Mr. Riddle what are you talking about? Could you please elaborate? You understand, of course, I cannot let you rest if I have not sufficient information, yes? Evading the question will not help."

"Yes, madam," he said, "I apologize, I did not mean to be unhelpful. But there are some things hard to come to words. Things that one knows deep down, and yet, saying them still hurts. Not that I consider it a good enough excuse, I am sorry again. What I meant was, that the chances of someone like me having an idea good enough to actually help the attempts of a mind like the one of Albus Dumbledore are next to no-"

"Now don't be silly," professor Marchbanks interrupted before she could help herself, "if there is someone who could, that would be you, dear boy! With your fame and published work and your papers, how could anyone doubt you would be of extreme use to the experiment?"

"I am afraid it is not that simple, madam. A certain magical background is always important to give weight to one's words, and I cannot claim that. I grew up surrounded by Muggles who never understood my passion for knowledge and considered me even dangerous because of my abilities."

As he spoke, he involuntarily raised his right hand so, that it covered a deep scar on his left one.

"Finding out about this world has been the greatest gift to me. And it was professor Dumbledore who unraveled it, I am sure he remembers, and I will always be grateful to him for that. Hogwarts offers me so many possibilities in life that I would have never dared imagine for myself. This place..." he looked around the room and, as the candles caressed his cheeks, the professor noticed they were pink in shame, "this place is my home. Or the closest to a home I could ever have.

I know I belong to the Wizarding World. But there are times, madam, that I have this odd feeling like I am a stranger. To my own house. That's... that's not the nicest feeling, madam. I could never fit anywhere else, and yet, I cannot always fit here either. Most have grown up in this world, it really _is_ their home. While I'm just a guest, with my five years here. Its other inhabitants sense this, perhaps, and are not always supportive; an understandable reaction. "

Shiny tears that he refused to shed were hanging from his eyelashes and he turned to the side to wipe them away ashamed. He spoke again only when his voice was trustworthy again.

"Forgive me, madam, I did not wish to make you uncomfortable or bother you with the silly worries of a teenager. But I ask you, would it be easy for professor Dumbledore, with his five decades of experience, to value the five years of mine? In the light of what happened, yes, I was right. I also ignored the orders of my teachers and tried to protect my friends. I- I thought, with the arrogance of the young obviously, that there was not a chance I could make a mistake with the protective enchantments, and I stand by it, they were perfectly executed. The mixture was volatile and when my girlfriend and my friends stood next to it, I forgot about everything.

I- I can't bear losing them, madam, they're my only family. They have done so much for me in the past years. Holidays and support, and just showing me the world! You can't imagine how much that means to me, a poor orphan, and they can't either. But I say it, and I don't care if it will give me trouble. It was not my magic that caused the explosion, and, if I had to decide again today, I would do it all over again. For Lucille and Cygnus and Adolph and everyone else in that class."

Tom finished his little speech and stared at her with a polite and still determined look on his face, as if he was waiting for her to tell him he was wrong. Professor Marchbanks remained silent for a while, absorbing what she had heard and collecting her general thoughts. Finally, she spoke.

"Well," she started, her voice unsure and shaky, "you did break the rules and ignored your professors. The fact that you are a Prefect only increases the importance of your misbehaviour. But I have to agree, things are not as simple as that. You insist on professor Dumbledore's approach being dangerous and him ignoring you for personal reasons, which are heavy allegations."

"I am not worthy of judging professor Dumbledore, madam," Tom said quietly, oblivious to the fact she was about to talk more. "I made a personal estimation that happens to be accepted by many, nothing more."

"Yes, yes, I am merely summing up, this interview is not official, no need to wor-" professor Marchbanks paused abruptly, because she had noticed Tom's facial muscles contracting. "Dear boy, you must be experiencing extreme pain, let me see which of these potions could relieve some of it."

She turned to the nightstand and started looking at the labels, but Tom waved an airy hand delicately.

"No, madam, please," he said weakly, "the medication makes me sleepy and fogs my mind, and I would like to read some more."

The professor hesitated again, but finally put the vials down.

"All right," she nodded, "I should let you rest now, then, I think I have what I need."

"Glad I could be of any help, madam. Excuse me I cannot stand."

"Don't be silly, dear boy, you need to rest, forget manners for a while, put yourself first," she smiled at him broadly. "My best wishes for your health and your future, I am sure we will talk soon."

"Thank you, madam, it means a great deal," he returned the smile.

She had reached the doorknob, when his voice came from behind.

"Madam? I know all this seems rather pathetic, and I would hate to give the wrong impression with losing my temper before. I do not pretend I have no idea of my personal abilities, I value myself and I am determined to make a name for myself, even though the circumstances have not been in my favour. It would be unfair and hypocritical of me to say I underestimate myself for whatever reason. Just, sometimes, it's hard to see that in the middle of so many obvious difficulties. But I would like you to know it, I am here to stay.

And, madam... best of luck with your new book."

* * *

It was late at night and professor Marchbanks was in her office, her desk covered with parchments and files, all making a papery soup. She had been reviewing the case for two days now, it had been her main focus, forgetting even all about her soon-to-be-published book, and she had to admit she had done zero progress. The candles had melted down and her eyes hurt so much, it was like they were covered in sandpaper. She had even had to ignore her eldest daughter's message, so she could keep rereading the records that would determine the fate of the school and of many important wizards, she just couldn't find the end of the thread to start untangling the mess.

Evidence pointed to Dumbledore being negligent; he had the means to know his theory had issues, and yet he avoided every contact with the boy. Their past relationship was theoretically irrelevant to the case and her judgment, yet still, she viewed it as evidence. The problem was, if she actually came out with such a verdict, his career and good name would be destroyed. It didn't make sense. The Albus she knew was an exceptionally kind man who was always more than happy to offer help and support to anyone in need, from his colleagues and friends, to his students and the whole wizarding community. All this talk about him being biased sounded surreal. And yet, she was sure it was true. So many kids and professors had verified it and, finally, yes, she believed too that the boy's idea was better and she was no specialist. Why wouldn't he listen to the boy?

On the other hand, she could see there was something off with the story from the boy's point of view. She couldn't put her finger on it exactly, and she was pretty convinced Tom Riddle was not the one with the problematic story. It was something more vague... If Tom was a victim of unfairness, why wasn't anything reported? She could understand his reasoning about caring only about the magic, not who thinks what, she could sympathize. She herself came from a very poor wizarding family and could proudly claim she had achieved everything she had achieved by her own hard work and brains. And she was also a daughter and mother; she couldn't imagine how life for this poor child must have been before he found out about this world... It kind of all added up without actually adding up. Or better, it didn't come together, and yet it did.

In her long career she had come across baffling cases, vital cases and cases where she could feel she was missing something. In the latter ones, she would take a walk, maybe eat a slice of chocolate cake and, when she looked at the records again, everything worked out, because she would spot the missing link. This time... this time, she had jogged and eaten a whole cake, and she still was as confused as ever. If she decided against Albus, his life was over as he knew it and he didn't deserve it, and if he decided against that, perhaps she was violating the rights of the most promising young wizard of their time, she couldn't do that either.

Professor Marchbanks sighed and took off her glasses to massage her temples. If she came up with no decision... it would be a first for her. But what could possibly be the harm of it? Taking one was definitely hurtful, and she couldn't see which one was more right or less hurtful. While if no decision was taken, things would go back to normal for everyone. No one had been hurt at that point and professor Dippet would ensure no similar accidents happened ever again. Albus would have the work he so loved and still be considered an outstanding member of the community, a position professor Marchbanks agreed with, and Tom would be also free to proceed with his education and build for himself the bright future that undoubtedly lay ahead for him. It would be what kids called now a win-win.

Tiredly, she stood up and walked to the open window for some fresh air. When she looked back, her eyes fell on her daughter's letter. It was pretty fat, for it most likely contained photos of her baby grandson. A smile lit up her face. Maybe taking a long break from the case would be beneficial to everyone.

_A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think._


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